The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 9

  Chris folded the pamphlet and placed it inside the right pocket of his jeans. As he did, he noticed the name on the grave in front of him. “Harold Wilson.”

  “Used to be Prime Minister of the UK.”

  That, Chris did not expect. “Wow.”

  Ben moved to one side, passing a row of graves. Despite the aid of the diary and its many diagrams, the headstones TF spoke of were nowhere to be found. The cemetery itself was generally well cared for, flowers were starting to bloom. The majority of the graves were in a good state of repair; the smell of recently cut grass teased the nostrils.

  Ben concentrated on an area close to the perimeter of the graveyard that was slightly worse kept. Seven years as a history lecturer told him it was in areas like these where the poorer, more obscure graves were often found. The grass was longer in this part: there was no evidence of regular maintenance, nor any obvious sign it was even consecrated ground. According to the diary, the graves were located on the south side of the churchyard in an area overgrown with vegetation.

  Strange, the graves TF spoke of were not there.

  Stranger still, what the hell was a Spanish captain doing buried on the island?

  Finding nothing of relevance, Ben entered the church. After taking his time to explore the interior, a visually appealing but also fairly typical C of E structure that was in danger of falling into disrepair, he failed to track down the vicar or anyone else who might be able to help. Both the cemetery and the church appeared deserted.

  Had the church not been unlocked, he would almost have taken it for being unused.

  Finding Chris again outside, they followed the walls of the church to the south side, examining the gravestones as they passed. There were trees everywhere, the majority of which were palm trees that shielded the area from the wider world.

  Ben saw something partially hidden amongst the foliage. There was a structure close to the trees, old, grand, clearly a mausoleum. Like many of the type, it had a Palladian appearance, most notably four stone pillars similar to those that supported ancient Greek temples.

  The door was locked, as expected; he guessed it had been for some time. The structure was about twelve feet high, with thick yellow brick walls and a sloping roof. Stone aside, the main element used in its construction was lead, heightening Ben’s initial suspicion that the people who had been laid to rest inside had been wealthy. A double-headed eagle was etched into the front wall above the door as part of the family coat of arms, accompanied by stone statues of two knights in armour facing one another. He read the names inscribed on a plaque by the door.

  Within these four little walls lie the remains of the Godolphin and Osborne families.

  The names meant nothing to Ben.

  As he continued to inspect the architecture of the neoclassical tomb, he became aware of a crack along the right wall, about half a metre in width and at least two in height. The crack widened the further down it went, he estimated almost to the width of his shoulders. The stone was damaged and discoloured at that point, the base muddy from the recent heavy rain. It was impossible to tell when the cracking had occurred.

  Common sense told him it had been during a recent storm.

  A small tile had also come loose, probably from the roof. Ben bent over to retrieve it.

  “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  Stopping mid action, Ben turned around, his eyes on the wall of the church. A man was standing there, black shirt, dog collar. A livid expression.

  “You must be the vicar?”

  The man walked quickly towards them. “Kindly put that down and go about your business.”

  The tile was still in Ben’s hand, swaying from side to side as he walked. “It needs repairing. Must’ve come loose in the earlier storm.”

  The man snatched it. “Thank you for your observations. Now please leave it alone.”

  Ben was inwardly amazed that the moving of a battered tile could be the cause of so much anger.

  He caught up with the man as he walked across the graveyard. “Excuse me,” Ben said, mustering the best smile he could. “Sorry to bother you with silly questions, but who were they? The Godolphins?”

  The vicar stopped and turned. “The family were the original leaseholders of the Isles,” he said, his tone barely any calmer. “Back before the island became more densely populated.”

  Ben loved his use of the words “densely populated”. “You mean they lived here alone?”

  “Not exactly. However, the island had a much smaller population back in the 1600s. Before the tourism boom, you understand?”

  A wry smile. “Do any of them still live here?”

  “I’m afraid the last descendant died in the early 1900s. Now, sir, if you please.”

  The vicar resumed his walk. He headed across the graveyard towards the entrance to the church and disappeared completely from sight. No sooner had he gone, Ben returned to the other side of the mausoleum, measuring up the size of the crack.

  Potentially it was wide enough for someone to squeeze inside.

  He looked again at the stone decorations; like those in most places on the island, the majority were sea related, suggesting the families had strong naval traditions. As he walked slowly around the mausoleum, Ben looked closely for anything out of the ordinary. As best he could tell, there was nothing Spanish or Aztec related.

  He looked at Chris, resigned.

  “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.”

  *

  Standing on the other side of the graveyard, the archaeologist watched with a rare sense of intrigue.

  The man was no stranger to the mysteries and stories of the island, even the more obscure ones. He had seen people coming and going from time to time, a casual tourist, an overeager journalist, a student who believed in ghosts and aliens . . .

  But till now he had never seen anyone so observant, particularly for something so seemingly irrelevant.

  Shaping the bridge of his hat with his index finger and thumb, he followed the two cousins in the direction of the path.

  10

  8 p.m. Central Spain

  The Extremadura region of Spain had rarely been regarded as important. According to official statistics, it had a population of over a million, but its remote character and open countryside features often gave the impression that it could be considerably less.

  Mile upon mile of green fields, dotted with isolated farmhouses, stretched virtually uninterrupted all the way to the Portuguese border. Most of the villages and hamlets had grown up as farming communities, the profusion of white houses with sloping red roofs providing a colourful reminder and picture of a bygone age. The residents, it appeared, were oblivious to the technological evolution. At night, occasional dim yellow lights could be seen to flicker across the horizon like a series of candles burning on a giant’s table, while, over the water, isolated bridges, some historic some new, stood more like monuments than integral parts of a transport infrastructure. The ancient roads, alive with trade and activity when the market was in town, were a different sight when it was not. Even in the peak periods they were rarely busy. In the heat of the day, the tarmac surface could reflect sunlight for hours on end, generating enormous heat, whereas at night the effect was one of much greater calm. The journey for vehicles crossing the bridge could be both cool and lonely.

  The region was the epitome of solitude.

  Among the small settlements within the wider community, the village of Medellín was both small and forgettable. On its outskirts, the view rarely changed. Countryside surrounded it in every direction; both green and yellow, forest and grassland. The area was a haven for wildlife. A tourist coming from America or further afield would find more in common with the tale of the roadrunner and the coyote than that of Don Quixote. The land had a residual stillness, as if time existed in a vacuum. In the summer months, the weather rarely changed. Even a passing wind could be unusual.

  Yet nestled within the flat, barren landscape,
there was one sight that even the least observant could not miss. Less than five miles from the village, a solitary green hill, flanked by the river and woodland, overlooked the houses like a mother watching over her children. The lush greenery was like a scene from a Disney film, its shape entirely different from anything else in the region. Unlike the rolling downs of England, this strange natural wonder rose up into the sky like an Aztec pyramid. While the scientists claimed that the development of its features was a natural phenomenon, the locals had always viewed it as having a mystical and portentous quality. In an area that had blessed Spain with so many great warriors and explorers, it was most fitting that the hill would honour the most famous of the lot.

  And whose descendants would in time claim it.

  At the top of the hill, a large medieval castle sat on the site like a king on a throne, as it had for over five hundred years. An imposing fortress in daylight, concealing a mighty and majestic domain worthy of royals and nobility, at night the skeletal remains took on an altogether more dominating aura. As the light faded, its five grand towers produced a dark silhouette, its epic façade merging with the black horizon. From a certain angle, the loose pentacle layout appeared almost two-dimensional, and, for a time, practically invisible. Yet as the darkness fell, its outline would return, its red walls illuminated by several small lights burning like swarms of fireflies in the air. From across the water, its walls reflected on the river like a waving flag. The castle was as it had always been: impenetrable.

  And inhabited.

  The roads below the castle carried very little traffic; and most of the cars that travelled them did so almost daily. Crossing the more modern of the two bridges that connected the sides of the Río Guadiana, the black Renault Mégane made its familiar journey in solitude. During the day, the black exterior was easily distinguishable, yet at night all that could be seen were two moving lights. On reaching a junction on the Ex-206, the car turned at a right angle before slowly ascending the hill, eventually disappearing within the walls of the castle. Even if the mysterious lights had been seen by any of the locals, their appearance would not have aroused suspicion. Those unaware of the true modern and mechanical source put them down to the spirits of the conquistadors protecting their homeland as they had all those years earlier. The villagers had grown up with such folklore.

  Even expanded on it.

  As the dirtied Mégane parked out of sight, its three occupants disembarked and walked across the inner courtyard. Stopping before the keep, the leader of the three was the first to witness the famous entrance, lit up like the fires of hell, just as it had been in its heyday. Up a steep stone stairway, two further torches lit up imposing double doors, their frames once oaks from the nearby woodland.

  The leader stepped forward, the loud thump of his knock echoing. As the seconds passed, a noise could be heard from inside, followed by a prolonged creak as the doors opened.

  From inside appeared the butler of the house, a man of distinguished features. A fine shock of grey hair had been neatly combed to a side parting, his eyes an inquisitive and piercing blue behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He looked at the men in silence, paying close attention to the large object that they carried.

  A nod of the head was the only acknowledgement.

  Entering the corridor, the sight that greeted them was almost identical to that of the courtyard; the electric glow of the modern-day lights replaced by that of fire on wood, creating ominous shadows against the red carpet. As the walk continued, the temperature varied, a radiant heat to freezing cold. Suits of armour, standing like lookout guards, appeared an evil presence in the fiery light, their shadows easily confused with those of the living. If the walls could talk, they would be telling their tale. It was written in the paintwork, the ceiling, but mainly through the fine works of art on the walls of the lengthy corridor.

  The hosts of the past continued to watch out over the living.

  As the trio reached the end of the corridor, the light became brighter, but the smell far worse. A large table in the centre of a grand room was illuminated by an almost angelic glow from the flickering flames of numerous ornate candelabra. On the table, molten wax had solidified at the bottom of half-burned candles, some spilling on to the red tablecloth. Beyond the table, a log fire roared brightly in the huge stone fireplace, while above the table two antique chandeliers were also burning, the lights giving off strange shadows shooting in different directions. Like the corridor, priceless artworks lined the walls, the facial features in the portraits both consistent and familiar.

  This was the heart of the castle. A fortress that dated back to the 1500s. It had been founded by the village’s most famous son, after whom it was named.

  Castillo Cortés.

  At the head of the table, the castle’s only occupant sat in prestigious isolation. Like those of his visitors, his eyes were dark, in his case a deep shade of brown that always appeared alive and alert. With thick lips, partially concealed by a finely trimmed goatee beard, and displaying a thoughtful expression, he bore a marked similarity to the faces on the walls. His dark hair was curly and naturally wavy, partially hiding small ears that were pierced at both lobes. He was the owner of the castle. A Cortés. The latest of a long line.

  Perhaps the last.

  The man wiped his mouth with a serviette and rose to his feet. He saw the object they carried above their shoulders. Although the stone was simple, it was a shape easily identifiable in any time or place. They were unlike any pallbearers he had seen, but then again the person they carried was deserving of such prestige.

  He headed towards the coffin and knelt, feeling the stone exterior with his palms and kissing it tenderly. Slowly he rose to his feet.

  “I’m most sorry about the torches,” he said, looking around the room. “It seems the recent stormy nights have taken their toll on the electricity.”

  He looked at each man in turn, pleased to see them.

  “Gentlemen.” He gestured them to place the coffin on the floor by the table.

  While two of the three sat down immediately after, the leader waited a while longer. He walked slowly towards the head of the table, removed an object from his pocket and threw it down on the wooden surface.

  Cortés eyed the object from a distance before examining it with his hands. The book was old, bound in the 16th century, the hard exterior considerably worn. He opened it to around the midpoint and read a sentence at random. Though written in his native tongue, the style was elongated and the text worn, the language hard to comprehend.

  “You came all the way to Medellín, Fernando, to give me a book?”

  The leader of the three smiled, which immediately developed into a laugh. “Not a book. This, my friend, is the book.”

  Cortés closed it and examined the cover. “You mean?”

  “Yes, Juan,” Fernando interrupted. He walked nearer, their faces almost touching. “Behold the last account of Lady Catalina.”

  Cortés was stunned; his bewildered expression confirmed a unique feeling of humility, a new unworthiness, something that could only be attributed to the overdue inheritance of a long-lost heirloom.

  He looked again at the leader of the three. “You have read it already?”

  The man’s expression remained unaltered. “Yes,” he said unequivocally. “The final clue was written inside the coffin. Our journey takes us to the coast of England. And the island of St Lide’s.”

  11

  8:30 p.m.

  Chris was feeling restless. The search for the graves had proved fruitless, even with the diary. He feared his cousin was right and that together they faced difficulties neither of them had previously anticipated.

  Making sense of its leads would be difficult.

  He left the GM just before 8 p.m., comfortably full. The cuisine at the inn was different to what he was used to – sloppy joes were never a bad shout back home – but it easily exceeded his requirements. He took Ben’s advice, plumping for scampi and chips fol
lowed by a homemade bread and butter pudding, and devoured both in record time. The breaded fish in tartar sauce was particularly appetising.

  He could still taste it on his tongue.

  The heart of Hugh Town was a well-planned selection of long streets lined by various shops and restaurants. After strolling along Silver Street through the heart of the town, he took a left along Garrison Lane and continued back up Garrison Hill.

  It was getting dark. The nearby concrete glowed under the light of early streetlights and lights from nearby buildings, their windows occasionally blocked by curtains or metallic shutters. On reaching Garrison Hill, the view improved: to his left, the medieval Star Castle rose into the sky like an ancient skyscraper, its strong walls seemingly impenetrable, whereas in the other direction the nearby harbour was lit up by the bright glow of overhead floodlights. Hundreds of boats, of all colours, were moored between the ferry terminal and Little Porth, their engines silent, their owners in the galleys below or taking a walk onshore, perhaps to nearby houses and inns.

  For Chris, the harbour was already his favourite sight on the island. His goal in life had been to join the naval academy, and he’d succeeded, graduating Annapolis without any major difficulties. Five years of naval service had been distinguished; rising through the ranks as an NCO, the potential had been there to be an officer. A mine explosion ended his career. Since then, he had tried everything, but everything lacked adventure. He wasn’t like Ben – at least that was what his grandmother had always said. Whereas Ben was the studious leader with a tough skin, Chris had other talents.

  He sometimes felt he was still to find them.

  He walked to the end of Garrison Hill and stopped close to the ferry terminal, leaning against a metal railing. There were several more inns in this part, with names such as the Mermaid and the North Atlantic, all with lights shining from their windows and the sound of merriment within.